Roskvir’s marines conducted their withdrawal from the clifftop library with expert efficiency, though he’d expected nothing less. Scout teams allowed the main troop a wide berth around any still-active pockets of fighting, as they made for the deserted northern portion of the city's waterfront. There shingle beaches were unsuited toward larger-scale landings, and so uncontested by either force. For their smaller troop, however, it was the perfect location to quietly exfiltrate their mission, going slowly but unharried over the boulders of the shore. Roskvir followed Thjali and her prisoner aboard the waiting cutter, alongside her other primary subordinates.

  From there they began the short journey back to the original beachhead, where Roskvir and his marines had made their first landing earlier that morning. Along the way they passed by the main harbor of the city for a second time.

  There were a handful of shelled-out tenements and hastily-assembled barricades along the beachfront streets. But for the most part, it struck Roskvir how untouched most of the city seemed. The battle, he reasoned, had progressed at too rapid of a pace in most areas for any serious damage to be done.

  Before long, they arrived.

  When Roskvir had first departed on that special assignment, their foothold on the beach had not yet been declared secure, with shock units still storming into enemy concentrations on the immediate flanks. But by the time of their return, the front was far elsewhere. Extensive field fortifications were already erect along the beach, protecting what appeared almost a city in its own right populated entirely by portable military shelters.

  The rough area in which his own vanguard-landing airship had first touched down was already clear of any sign there had been fighting there at all, and was itself occupied by tents and watercraft and small moored airships. Beyond the beach, deeper into the city itself, some of the larger oceanfront edifices were cleared out, no doubt to be commandeered for whatever logistical purposes their force required. And everywhere soldiers milled about, attending to their duties with purpose but not any kind of intense front-line urgency.

  As the shore again grew nearer, Roskvir saw a section of the beach cordoned off, where military policemen stood watch over large groups of civilians corralled into what resembled pens for holding livestock. Behind the custody of the MPs, native children wailed in their parents’ arms, while the adults shared similar fear, confusion, and dismay.

  They all shared the same strange range of colors as the soldiers he’d encountered earlier, dispelling his notion that it was only the warriors of that land that endured intense sun exposure during the course of their duties. Their complexions ranged from the olive of the girl Thjali had retrieved from the library, to a much darker, earthen brown, many shades darker than even the most sun-tanned peoples in the southernmost reaches of Albion.

  But dominating the scene more so than any mass of despairing, strange-skinned people or the ever-expanding city of tents, was the sky-blanketing form of the Tanngnjóstr, looming over them all.

  It wasn’t a surprise to see the behemoth airship, floating in deceptive peace just beyond the southern cliffs of the shore, as though to cast a watchful gaze down over the entirety of the beachhead.

  Roskvir had expected the great capital ship of the expeditionary fleet to arrive eventually, and he’d observed its immense presence countless times, back in the aeronaval ports and dockyards of Albion. But its presence struck him then, as it always did when he laid eyes upon it. As he suspected it did to many who observed it, even for the hundredth time.

  Many of his marines had more openly marveled at its sight, as it had come into view. Even the foreigner child stared at its distant, incredible form. Only Thjali seemed disinterested.

  It was almost a half-mile long, majestic, lumbering, and overbearing. With hundreds of mooring lines still in the process of attaching it to the earth, it still rose high into the sky, its tallest fins and rudders cutting apart some of the lower-reaching clouds.

  Above the white-gray cement-like fabric of its main envelope was a flat upper surface designed for the launching and landing of smaller craft. Attached over the other the rest of the ovaloid were dozens of auxiliary cabin structures like barnacles, coating its side and onto its underbelly. Greatest of any single structure, though, was the primary hull attached to the very bottom of the envelope, like a four-hundred-meter-long suckerfish stuck to an even greater whale.

  Beneath that hull, extended the massive barrels of its main battery.

  The tiered lengths of the artillery came out of the underbelly of the ship to face toward the ground like thick bony spines. Monstrous emplacements they were, which as singular field guns would be mounted on rails and operated by dozens of men on the ground. They faced down toward the city not individually but in two triplicate-barrelled turrets. But then quiet and unmoving.

  There was no mistaking their capability, though, even to those who might never have seen guns such as that fired before. Their very forms and sheer size implied destructive might. A firepower of certain ruin.

  Roskvir had never seen the Tanngnjostr itself fire its main cannon before, but he’d watched its sister-ship, the Tanngrisnir, fire one three-shot barrage from its similar battery during a munitions test before he’d left the Albion home islands. Its shells, fired into solid ground, had detonated targets buried more than one hundred feet below the surface.

  And there were six such cannons on the Tanngnjóstr, eighty-centimeter barrels unmoving and inert above the distant raging of the battle for the city, which Roskvir had learned was called by its natives something like ‘Hi-lo-mos.’

  The final mooring tethers locked the great ship into place, as Roskvir and the rest of Thjali’s retinue disembarked the cutter at the shallow ad-hoc port of the beachhead. In the distance the great beast of an airship lingered in place for a time as its crew waited for it to steady in the winds, for its many tethers to become taut. Evidently, someone aboard intended to make a visit to the surface themselves. Roskvir wondered why his lord the shogun himself would be coming down from his flagship and gracing them with his presence so early into the operation.

  At the gates of the encampment, Thjali ordered Roskvir and a symbolic honor guard of other six officers of her staff to stay with her and the child. Roskvir continued after her and her yet-smaller as they passed through the gate, keeping within a dutiful close proximity by her side as her ranking lieutenant.

  Thjali led their group through the bustling interior of the encampment with purpose, weaving them between long canopies designated as mess halls and infirmaries, wagon trains of disassembled field guns, and uhlans unloading from their transports, whose mounts’ vicious snarling fangs were quick to clear the way for their riders’ transversal of the otherwise crowded inner camp.

  A circle of tents were situated atop a small sandy hill on the more landward side of the beach, near the rough center of the encampment, and there Thjali brought them to a halt. A long table of fine craftsmanship spanned the length of a velvet awning, and officers that occupied some of the more serious decision-making ranks of the expeditionary force were strewn about the area, most in discussion with at least one of their peers.

  “Watch her for now,” said Thjali, thrusting an arm of the child towards Roskvir.

  He blinked at the proffered wrist. The whole situation presented by the child still bewildered him.

  He took it. At once, he could feel the child’s pulse at the base of her palm.

  It was rapid and strong, the pace of racking stress. He thought of a hummingbird.

  The girl stared at him with those hardened, intelligent eyes. Her breathing was shallow and also quick, as if its cadence was beyond her control. But she concealed her fear well, otherwise. But for her heartbeat, he would’ve thought her much calmer.

  It unsettled him, again, to meet her gaze, and he turned away to face straight ahead.

  For some reason, it seemed to him she wouldn’t do anything as foolish as try to escape, surrounded as she was in the middle of the camp.

  He slowly lessened his hold, then released her wrist. And indeed the child did nothing but continue to stand still, beside him.

  He thought Thjali might disapprove of the alternative approach, but she seemed either not to notice or not to care. Free of the burden of the child’s custody, she surveyed the other figures of the hilltop, studying faces and rank insignia.

  Roskvir knew all too well the scheme and plan of political maneuver coursing through her. But he was indifferent to her shamelessness. If anything, he was amazed by the sheer capacity for ambition that could reside within certain people, and the mental energy it must require.

  “When it comes time, bring her forward,” said Thjali, all while still fixated on one particular flaggadmiral at the gathering’s periphery. “You’ll know when. For now, I have business.”

  Roskvir nodded, and she left him and the rest of her entourage behind. As if pouncing at once upon one of the informal clusters of other high-officers.

  So the child was important enough to be a keynote point at such a meeting, he thought. In that case, he only half-resented playing the role of Thjali’s most loyal disciple, at least for a time. She could wield his reputation to her advantage in the realm of high-command politics all she liked if it meant she might sooner be promoted or reassigned to a more prestigious duty far distant from him.

  Shards of distant conversations floated their way to him. At first only troop movements and supply priorities, before he caught a whisper of something much less mundane.

  “…that’s what the scouts are reporting. Leveled flat, for miles. I didn’t even know we had operatives that deep.”

  “Are we even sure it was us? Seems to undermine the very point…”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Roskvir spied a pair of admirals with shoulder pauldrons a few degrees fancier than Thjali’s, and bicorne hats plumed. They were among the highest ranks in attendance.

  Their uncertain tones were twice perplexing, given their rank. How often was it that ranking officers of the whole expeditionary force weren’t party to the entirety of campaign details? Roskvir was quite used to operating only on his next order, himself, and knowing little of the broader direction of things. But he’d always assumed those above, especially those high above, occupied their time making plans for every eventuality. That was at least the impression he’d gotten during his previous encounters with officers ranked as high, which had been many, given how often Thjali liked to parade him around as one of her trophies.

  And the specific subject of their whispers, too, caught his attention. As far as he knew, the entire campaign was to begin with Hilomnos as a staging ground, and nothing in Hilomnos had been ‘leveled’. The city was almost untouched by combat.

  An officer in a special uniform crested the far side of the hill, stamping in place at the end of his march with formal abruptness.

  “Stand at attention for the arrival of his excellency,” he announced. “The commander-in-chief of the expeditionary force against the barbarians!”

  All present stiffened as if in practiced unison at the announcement, hands raising in salute.

  The form of a man began to rise from behind the small hill of the gathering. Head, neck, then shoulders emerged into visibility, with each casual step against the distant, canvas-like background of the hulk of the Tanngnjóstr.

  Roskvir began to sweat.

  He’d never even seen the shogun in person before, let alone attended a meeting of matters of high command in his presence.

  The figure came over the hill with a pace slow and deliberate, all while effortless, as if savoring the slow process of his summit. Once level with them all, he stopped, towering over the herald who stood at attention beside him and most others present.

  Roskvir beheld his lord.

  He wore folded robes that almost resembled those of a monk, a pectoral and one arm exposed to the air by its draping style. But his body was not at all like that of an ascetic, with thick muscles accompanying the whole of his tall form, visible on his legs beneath the folds of his robes almost as defined as those bristling beneath the uncovered skin around his arm and neck. As he looked upon the gathering of officers himself, an almost sad or apologetic smile unfolded across his expression, while his blue eyes sparkled in the sun of just past midday.

  “At ease, my friends,” he said. “Please, be seated.”

  Other guards of his personal retinue filled out the hilltop. Around his waist the shogun wore no weapons, only a loose sash of the same silk as his robes.

  The high officers took seats beneath the awning, Thjali among them. She opted for the very end of the oblong table, far but directly across from the shogun at its head. Roskvir remained standing, a few feet away.

  All waited quiet as the shogun settled into his seat with smooth leisure, then took a deep breath, looking at the sky.

  “A beautiful day, isn’t it?” he said.

  After an unsure pause, some of the present officers murmured their assent.

  “I’m told,” he continued, “that this land is beautiful all year-round.”

  He drew in another long breath, seeming to savor its taste.

  “That sounds nice, doesn’t it? Like this, all year round?” he said as he turned a wistful gaze out over the city. “Everything looked so beautiful from up in the clouds, earlier this morning, too. So simple, from up in the clouds. I do trust things were just as beautiful on the ground?”

  Then he waited, prompting no one in particular and yet all of them at once to speak up. Anxious disquiet fell over the other high officers at the table, with Thjali as the only exception. But before the assembly missed more than a few beats of silence, one of the marine admirals took the initiative with commendable bravery.

  “Absolutely so, your excellency. Fighting has been light, even sparser than our projections. The whole of the city should be soundly in our control by tomorrow morning, if not earlier. There are incredibly few defenders to note, and there seems little organization among them.”

  “We had surprise, after all, then,” interjected another officer, as the mood of caution chipped away.

  “If I recall, the wargame outcomes tended to predict there would be no way a fleet of our size could approach without giving the enemy significant time to mobilize.”

  “Our efforts to disrupt communications are playing their part in that, I would think,” added a man wearing the uniform of naval intelligence service.

  “Yes, Oberadmiral Lokkemand will be pleased to know that his designs in that sphere have been successful.”

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  The shogun leaned back in his chair, watching the officers become more involved in the conversation, all eager to demonstrate to him their knowledge of something in particular.

  “And the occupation effort, so far? How are they behaving?” he asked.

  “By all accounts, well, your excellency. They seem docile, it seems. They haven’t forced the military police to make examples of any more than a dozen or so.”

  “Hmm,” said the shogun.

  “If I may — is it possible that some of the more… outlandish claims from the early cultural reports… might actually be true? That foreign invasion was simply never a consideration in the minds of these people?” asked another admiral of the intelligence service. “That might explain both the lack of resistance, now, and their lack of preparation.”

  “What prompts you to think so?” asked the shogun.

  “The people of this land at least have small arms that resemble modern design, but we’ve encountered no warships of any kind, air or seaborne, even in any sort of patrol capacity. We haven’t found arsenals for large-caliber munitions anywhere in the city, so far, at least. We haven’t come under fire from, or even recovered evidence of any sort of artillery, rockets or mines.”

  A general who’d spoken before snorted.

  “I never believed the reports that said they didn’t have cannon. I’ll say, I almost started to wonder about caution, when I inspected one of the rifles we captured, because it seemed almost somewhat sophisticated. But if they don’t have guns...”

  Many of the officers present nodded between murmurs of assent. But the resounding pound of the shogun’s fist upon the table whipped their collective silence back into place.

  He looked up slowly from his lap, his fist still clenched on the table, his expression still genial.

  “Tell me, admirals and generals of my council. Do the people of this land wield sjaelsvaben?”

  A few of the officers shifted in their seats, some murmuring about reports one way or another. None who’d yet spoken had been anywhere close to the actual combat of the frontline, thought Roskvir.

  “Yes, your excellency. They do.”

  Thjali’s fearless voice for the first time cut clear across the disorganization of the others. At her words the trickle of their cautious musings again fell quiet.

  “They do, you say, vizeadmiral Taerforer?” asked the shogun.

  His fist on the table unclenched.

  “Yes, your excellency.”

  His smile vanished.

  “Then they are not to be underestimated.”

  Certain danger possessed his lack of inflection.

  “We shall all hope for a swift victory, but none of you are to expect it. Until the complete capitulation of the people of this land, they are to be treated as a threat not just to the success of our campaign, but to the safety of the home islands. All resources at our disposal are to be used to their full effect — without any consideration to plunder or glory — until the very last resistance to our control has been completely erased. That is the explicit doctrine of our strategy in this campaign. Is that clear?”

  Various forms of ‘Yes, your excellency’ and ‘Of course, your excellency’ layered over each other around the table.

  “Now, let us proceed with the details of your reports. I am already aware of the general success of today’s operation, so nothing more of the self-congratulatory variety will be necessary. Reports of what surprised us today would better hold my interest. What went wrong, if anything. Let’s begin with the commanders of ground forces. Do you have anything to report along those lines that I might like to know about?”

  “As mentioned earlier, small-arms recovered from defeated enemy forces appear even somewhat advanced,” said a marine commandant, an older man with a thick greying mustache. “It's possible that if they had been present in force, enemy infantry could pose real resistance to our own, absent supporting elements that would otherwise give us a decisive advantage.”

  “Mmm,” said the shogun. “That, I believe, does not correlate with the information from our reconnaissance efforts.”

  One of the intelligence officers coughed.

  “My staff have reported little else,” continued the commandant. “I suspect today’s operations have simply progressed too quickly to observe much… though perhaps, one unusual aspect of the composition of the enemy force is of note…”

  The shogun raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, your excellency, of the captured enemy… a large fraction of the force seems composed of women bearing arms, in addition to men… certainly, we’ve encountered more than one might expect from an army’s inclusion of just the most talented female sjalesvabeners, those with proper martial spirits, as would be… natural.”

  Though the commandant kept his composure better than most until then, he wavered as the pierce of Thjali’s unreadable gaze fell upon him. Even as she was otherwise still devoid of emotion, and as Roskvir couldn’t imagine any reason the comment might’ve offended her. As far as he could tell, it sounded like an incidental compliment.

  “It appears that among their small garrison, the ratio of male to female soldiers is nearly, or even exactly equal… as I said, highly unusual.”

  “Very well… hmm,” said the shogun. “...Well, if that is all for the ground forces today, we shall move on. Now, I don’t wish to repeat myself, but I am quite aware that we have uncontested aerial superiority, and that we’ve encountered no warships of the sea, either. Beyond that, would there be anything else that the admirals, logistics or intelligence men present wish to report?”

  “Well, other than that our efforts seem to be progressing as planned, no, not from intelligence,” said the naval intelligence admiral.

  “So, ‘no’ then, officer?”

  “Well — yes, your excellency — no, I mean,” he finished, followed by a visible swallow bobbing down his throat.

  “Mmm,” said the shogun, staring at the man.

  He said nothing for a few long seconds, then stirred, rolling his shoulders and stretching, almost like a great cat.

  The officers watched close his every movement, rapt in a mixture of fear and awe. Each, except for one. Thjali’s attention instead meandered off into empty space, between occasional disinterested inspections of the dirt beneath her nails and the blots of blood on her uniform’s sleeve cuffs.

  “Vizeadmiral Taerfoer, how went… your field assignment, today?” said the shogun at last, after some time. His tone then as if he held a mere passing interest in Thjali’s answer.

  Thjali smiled, though just before she’d seemed so deeply engaged in her disinterest. Roskvir took his cue.

  The six other officers around him parted, and he stepped forward, urging the child along in front of him with a firm arm, as gentle as he could manage.

  The shogun’s attention was fixated on Roskvir’s left, where the child stood, as if Roskvir himself wasn’t there at all.

  “Ah… yes. She was in the library, as per the reports?”

  “Yes, your excellency,” said Thjali.

  “Then perhaps intelligence has contributed something useful today, after all.”

  Once more there were squirms of awkward discomfort from a handful of the other seated officers.

  “Bring her closer,” said the shogun.

  Roskvir continued forward, as if an automaton, bringing the child towards the man. For some reason, he realized he was uncomfortable doing so. Even as he did anyway and without hesitation.

  The shogun leaned over his knees to face the girl, who stared back at him with a knowing coldness when they stopped again before him. Even as Roskvir knew she spoke no Albian and so couldn’t understand what had been said, or the exact importance of the man before her.

  The shogun reached towards her cheek, but she looked down and away from him, rebuffing the gesture. He paused, then withdrew.

  “Hmm,” he murmured. He drew back, and looked down his nose at the wreath of leaves atop her head.

  Reaching again, he plucked the tangled crown from her head, brushing away the hair that followed with a touch so light Roskvir imagined the girl might not have even noticed the wreath’s disappearance, had she not herself witnessed it be taken.

  The shogun raised it to the sky, inspecting it. Holding it right beside the sun, turning it over to look over one side, then the other.

  He then bent down to replace it on her head just as gently. She flinched as he did, in anticipation of some scratch or brusqueness. But the grace of the shogun's movements precluded any such harm beyond question.

  “Was her recovery difficult?”

  “No, your excellency, it wasn’t,” replied Thjali.

  “Hmm,” he murmured once more. His inflection then, for some reason, one of disapproval.

  “Shall I take it the library has been left untouched, then?”

  “Almost entirely, your excellency.”

  The shogun beamed.

  “You have never once failed me, vizeadmiral,” he remarked. “I think it is time I addressed such consistent loyalty, and capacity. You have been a mere vizeadmiral for much longer than suits you, I believe.”

  He raised an eyebrow her way. But still Thjali’s expression remained devoid, and she kept silent and only waited for the shogun to continue, as did all the others.

  “And I have needed a personal hand, someone capable of executing my will directly in matters such as these. Matters which require both precision and efficacy and secrecy and immediacy. I have attempted to wield you in such a way, but have found your role at the head of those marines… cumbersome, for such a purpose, vizeadmiral.”

  Roskvir watched with morbid fascination as Thjali and the shogun regarded each other.

  “It is long since due that I offer you something for your efforts and loyalty. I hereby invite you to be my aide-de-camp, a position which would be accompanied by an immediate promotion to flaggadmiral. This, truly, has been long since due,” he reiterated. His teeth showed in his smile.

  Thjali’s reply broke the ensuing silence just before the delay verged on impertinence.

  “Your excellency, I am honored by such an offer. Truly, honored.”

  “So, you accept, then, vizeadmiral?”

  The child by Roskvir’s side watched the exchange closely. Her attention alternating between the shogun and Thjali.

  “Of course I accept such an honor, if it is truly your wish, your excellency… but I implore you to accept my counsel on the matter before any such serious changes are undertaken,” said Thjali. “If I have been of such useful service in my current capacity, then perhaps I can best serve you in that exact capacity. Was it not the wisdom of Brokkr of the Vaesir, who said, ‘If sharp your sword’s blade, sharpen it not,’ your excellency?”

  That rhetorical device, dripping with indulgence, Roskvir was sure would set things off.

  But the shogun’s answer was just another indistinct hum, a tacit indication for Thjali to continue, and Roskvir remarked silently just how much nimbler she was than he at navigating such situations.

  But the shogun’s eyes were not in any way thoughtful, as his murmurs otherwise implied. A baleful rage, instead, simmered there, as Thjali orated.

  “Thus, as your most loyal servant, I must advise you not promote me so, your excellency, lest I become less capable of serving you.”

  Roskvir swore she resisted the temptation to finish her point with some kind of gesticulated flourish. She seemed to be speaking to the other officers of the assembly, more so than her ostensible interlocutor, at that point.

  “But my problem still remains, vizeadmiral,” said the shogun. “I am in need of a strong right arm closer at hand, one with experience and further capacity for work in the field. And for that, your expertise seems suited. What better way might you serve me than by satisfying my need for such an executioner?”

  “Ah, but there is a solution, your excellency. There is another candidate who could fill the position just as capably as I, whom I might humbly suggest in my place. The kapit?nleutnant Englihavt, currently my most loyal lieutenant. He’s standing with you, there. Have you heard of him? His reputation precedes him. And he was instrumental, today, in the success of our special assignment.”

  Roskvir’s stomach flipped. The attention of every other officer fell upon him, though Thjali and the shogun alone continued staring each other down across the table.

  “I have heard something of the supposed exploits of one kapit?nleutnant Englihavt… but the rumors a man in my position overhears — one who is well in tune with his forces, at least — are… multifarious…”

  “Oh, but they are true, your excellency,” said Thjali, laying on yet thicker still her false enthusiasm. “He is as capable with his sjaelsvaben as I, perhaps even more so, and his abilities so versatile. And his bravery, for the sake of king, and country — unmatched.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Indeed, the kapit?nleutnant Englihavt is quite well known, your excellency, even among other regiments—“ began another officer, a general.

  But the immediate fixture of two withering glares from both ends of the table collapsed the end of the comment into a strange cough, even as neither Thjali nor the shogun said anything to the officer in particular, and it wasn’t any sort of formal impoliteness for him to have offered his thoughts at such a moment.

  After waiting to see that the officer wouldn’t continue his interjection, the shogun turned back to Thjali.

  “He was ‘instrumental in the execution’ of your special assignment, you say? For some reason, this detail wasn’t relevant in your report of your mission to our council, here, until it was convenient for you to mention as much. Or am I misreading things?”

  Thjali paused, then put up her hands. Emotion at least came over her expression in the form of a guilty smile that read ‘alright, you’ve got me.’ But then the expression vanished, and she continued on as if nothing had happened.

  “Perhaps your excellency should consider that kapit?nleutnant Englihavt’s reluctance to share the bravery of his own exploits such that my own personal glory might be advantaged is a quality that only speaks to his loyalty to superiors… such loyalty that you certainly would value in an executioner.”

  “Hmm.”

  The robed man turned, and Roskvir felt the shogun examining him just as he had the child earlier.

  “Kapit?nleutnant, if you wouldn’t mind, why not give us a demonstration of your sjaelsvaben? It really is quite impressive, your excellency,” urged Thjali.

  With a lazy yet effortlessly-regal wave of one hand, the shogun indicated his permission. With an expectant eyebrow raised, he leaned back in his chair, and waited.

  Roskvir took a few steps to stand apart from the others, and by chance found Thjali’s gaze. At its meeting he felt a strange shame, as if he had any reason to be ashamed. But nevertheless cast his eyes to the ground.

  Then, with a final deep breath, he drew upon the spirit of his sjaelsvaben.

  Channeling it through his arms and back and then through his spine, he felt its energy in his fingertips, within his core, coursing through his veins, and then all around him. Physical in the air before him, as it began to take shape.

  A spear of blood-orange fire found its place in his hands. The blade at the end of its long haft hovered an inch above the ground by the expert looseness of his grip. He possessed it with a type of readiness often mistaken for a hold tenuous, or unguarded.

  The blade burned hot, warming the air yards away. The shogun’s guards inched forward, nervous at such power’s nearness to their charge. They tensed, inching into a tighter protective flank, before another wave of the shogun’s hand dissuaded them.

  Burning wings of persimmon fire sprouted from Roskvir’s back as he stretched them to their full span for the sake of demonstration. Agony seared the space between his shoulder blades, but it was a familiar sensation, one he’d learned at least in part to master.

  And above his temple a halo flamed, bright and hot like all else, curved and horned in two sharp prongs above his forehead, breaking in perfection with each flicker and swell.

  And Roskvir knew that all present sensed his presence on a more innate level, too. All except the child, for she was much too young to have attuned to a sjaelsvaben.

  He felt exposed. As if naked, with so many sensing him, while he remained unable to feel their presences in turn.

  The shogun’s eyes were set upon him. The warring tension between him and Thjali had dissipated.

  After holding taut his concentration, he willed his sjaelsvaben away. The smokeless fire of his wings doused into feather-sparks, and his glaive and crown vanished just as fast, though the heat bled into the air still lingered.

  The shogun turned back to Thjali.

  “I can see the wisdom in your suggestion, vizeadmiral. I will appropriate the kapit?nleutnant as a personal agent for a short probationary period while I decide whether or not he is truly fit to serve in the capacity I require.”

  Thjali stood at once and bowed, at last gracing them all with that missing flourish, and Roskvir wondered if he was mistaken to detect a hint of mockery. Then she stood and saluted, as if dismissing herself.

  “This meeting is adjourned,” said the shogun, to preempt her.

  The assembly dispersed without delay, many there eager to depart. It wasn’t long before all others had left, leaving Roskvir alone with just the shogun, his guards, and the strange child by his side upon the hilltop.

  “Follow me, kapitanleutnant. Let us see if your measure matches the vizeadmiral's praises.”

  "The snake which cannot cast its skin has to die."

  Nietzsche